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Sakincha: The Demon's Knife
~80 YEARS PRE-CAMPAIGN Sakin lay with a sword buried deep between his ribs, breathing hard and ragged with the lung that hadn't been pierced. He'd drown in his own blood soon enough, he knew. His solace was that the elf on the other end of the rapier had died first. The battle still raged around him -- orcish and elven magic sending earth erupting, wind gusting, scorching flesh and air. Metal rang against metal. Souls cried out in pain and fury. And in the trench he would die in, Sakin was quiet, just breathing for as long as he could, scowling up at the sky as he coughed up the first foamy blood that would eventually choke him. A healer might find him. They'd find him surrounded by elf corpses, behind the enemy line, if they did. An elf might even heal him enough to capture him and question him, or keep him alive as a sideshow freak to frighten children with, and in that case he guessed he'd just have to slit his gut open and hang himself with his own entrails. Either way, he'd die. Even if his own people got to him in time, there would be another battle, and Sakin would, as he always did, spearhead the charge. Frankly, it was only a wonder he hadn't died sooner. He wasn't afraid of death. Gruumsh would take him. It was abrupt. Not dying -- although it would be, too -- but the seeming slowing of time, as arrows flying through the air began to barely crawl, and warriors were suspended in mid-swing of their weapons, faces almost frozen in snarls and battle cries. And the pain -- it stopped. Sakin was still pinned to the ground by the rapier in his chest, but it didn't hurt any longer. He could still move normally, not slowed. And across the field, slowly, someone else was moving normally too. He didn't rush, but his strides were long on nimble deer-like legs. His skin and fur were as deep, dark a blue as the rim of the night sky opposite the sunset, and horns curved back from his temples, and wings extended out from his back -- folded neatly, but still visible. He made his way straight towards Sakin in a slow, unbothered, but inevitable way. It didn't take a cleric to know that he was a demon. Sakin could only watch him and wait. He was stranger, closer. He was adorned with golden bands -- on his wrists and arms, on his horns, around his neck, in his ears, on his fingers. They were a bright glimmering contrast to the skin and fur that seemed to absorb almost all light, pricks of starlight in the evening sky. His wings were softly furred like a bat's -- all of his fur looked soft, and his gaze was soft as well, golden irises with no pupil regarding Sakin gently. The demon knelt beside him, somehow untouched by the blood and grime of the war. "Hello," he said quietly, which seemed like an odd greeting from an evil fiend. Sakin was still breathing hard, struggling around the sword and the blood. "What do you want?" he croaked. And the demon smiled at him fondly. "To the point. I like that." It registered that he was speaking orcish. The words dripped from his lips like sweet liquor. "I have a proposition for you. Would you like to die faster, and stop suffering?" "Nothing wrong with suffering," Sakin bit out. "I quite disagree." He was still smiling, slightly, vaguely, in such a way that Sakin had to look at his lips. The teeth hiding behind them were needles. "But it's what I expected you to say. You're quite something, Sakin." Sakin grunted and twisted around the rapier. "How d'you know my name, demon?" "I've been watching," it said, and the pupiless eyes opened -- they all opened -- on its body, and as stars in the sky, and in the glints off swords and arrowheads, in the shadows and in the light, all separate and all insectoid, and the demon was no man with deer hooves and fur and wings -- it was a thing -- And it was watching. Sakin cried out, but no sooner than he had, the eyes closed. The demon was looking at him with only two golden eyes, and smiling. It -- he? -- the demon touched Sakin's face with gold-tipped fingers, gently, carefully. "Don't be afraid," it said. "I wouldn't hurt you. I'd like to save you, if you'll let me." His voice trembled. He was terrified for the first time in his life. "Leave. Leave me be, demon." "If that's what you want, darling." It stroked his cheek. "I'll ask you later." The demon disappeared. The battle resumed, and Sakin choked on his blood, and death came for him quickly. ### ~60 YEARS PRE-CAMPAIGN Nissa was the finest brawler in the city, and she would knock the teeth out of anyone who said any different. She'd carved the words phlegethos and stygia into her brass knuckles to show everyone what kind of hellfire she'd bring down on them, and if they ever actually got a hit in, she'd set them on actual fire. See how they liked that. Her full name was Sharpness, and that wasn't for nothin'. She met Aziz when he put so much money on her in a back alley fight that someone tried to sabotage her, and almost killed her, and he had to step in to help out. Wasn't like she couldn't've handled it on her own, of course. It was nice, though. He was easy on the eyes -- dark blue with big curling horns and a little scruff -- and after she went down, about passing out from the poison she'd been slipped, he spat fire from his hands to back off the other gamblers. "I'm terribly sorry," he said, helping her up and looking fucking baffled. He had a posh sort of voice. "I didn't expect that to happen." Nissa laughed. She held onto him, hands bulky with brass knuckles and bloodstained wraps. "Thassalright," she slurred, drugged and concussed. "How 'bout takin' me home, uh, hot stuff?" She snickered at her own joke. 'Cause of the fire, see? He did that. He took her to her home, and then put her in her bed, but getting there was all kind of a blur. "How'd'you know where I live?" she mumbled. "You told me," he reminded her. "You know, I'm a bit concerned about your head." "Pfffff." He patiently unwrapped her hands and pulled her trusty knucks off, looking over the calloused and blistered skin. His hands went cool and soothing around hers. Magic. That was really something. She wondered if he was a wizard, or a cleric, or a sorcerer, or what. Then he washed the scrapes and wrapped them up in clean bandages, and she drifted off. Nissa woke up and shambled into her little kitchen/living room, and remembered parts of the previous night when she saw Aziz sleeping on her couch. He was fancier than she remembered from her fucked up state -- wore a lot of gold jewelry, and nice clothes. She thought about robbing him, but he had saved her skin, so she made him breakfast instead. When he woke up bleary-eyed and asked if she was feeling all right, and she scoffed mightily, he said the strangest damn thing. "Oh, good." He sounded so relieved. "I really was hoping to get to know you before you died." She laughed. He was fuckin' strange. Charming, though. He was from far away, he said, and a lot of shit in Skyport was new to him. She made eggbread that first morning and he acted like it was the best fucking thing he'd ever eaten. He would have probably poured syrup straight into his mouth if she hadn't stopped him. He was goddamn smart about other shit, though. He always knew what was going on, he just didn't always understand it, and Nissa, she was streetsmart. They made a good team. It was his magic, she guessed, that let him see things -- not like future things, just around corners and behind people and the like. She didn't know a thing about magic, so she never really bothered to ask. But she taught him how to play cards, and he used his magic to cheat up a storm. They made fuckin' bank, and he always seemed so innocent and docile somehow, through it all. Even when he was breaking people's arms when they decided he was cheating -- always with a pleasant smile on his face. He seemed to be real startled when she kissed him, whiskey-drunk and high on a win. His smile faltered. "I … I didn't mean for that to happen," he said. "Well, I fucking did," she told him, and kissed him again. Aziz always gave off this air like he was just along for the ride, whatever Nissa wanted to do. She'd assumed for a long time that he had some kinda feelings for her, since he always seemed to be game for whatever tomfoolery she came up with, whenever she wanted to do it. So it was a little weird, she thought, him being surprised. He got onboard with it quick-like, though, and with a passion. Made her wonder, though. "Aziz." "Mm?" He was tracing the line of her jaw, like she liked, while she laid on his arm. "You want this?" "What do you mean?" "The fucking." She rolled onto her stomach to look at him, frowning a little. "The … relationship. All of it. You want it to be like this?" He looked so enamored in such a subtle way. "I want whatever you want, darling." Nissa didn't think she'd ever had anyone love her so totally. Not even her momma had paid her that much mind, and Aziz just appeared in her life like some kinda angel and always just … gave her what she wanted, and did what she wanted, usually all before she even had to ask. He listened to her and counseled her in his clever, peculiar way, and he smiled at her so -- so almost imperceptibly, like the look was just for her, just when she was looking at his lips. One time he called her the wrong name, and she busted out laughing while he looked dead embarrassed. "Ex-boyfriend?" she teased. "Not really." He'd gone slightly lavender in blushing. "One that … got away." When she asked him to marry her, he froze again, startled. He stammered a bit. "Wh-why?" "'Cause I love you, dummy." "I didn't … I don't … well …" He was just being strange again. She kissed him and told him it was okay, he could take his time. Death was just as abrupt the second time. The match took a turn for the worse when she got a nasty blow to the head that sent her spinning. She couldn't recover in time and her opponent was vicious, giving her another one to the skull, and she heard, as much as felt, the oddest crack. As she went down, she heard a distressed cry, and then time slowed. Droplets of blood and spittle hung in the air. The roar of the betting crowd dulled. And Aziz was there -- her not-quite-husband, not quite himself, because he wasn't a tiefling, quite, anymore. Hooves. Fur. Wings. But it was … him, and his golden eyes shimmered. "Not yet." He came to her, and caught her, and cushioned her broken head. "Not yet. I wasn't ready yet." She didn't understand what was happening. She couldn't, with the bone shards piercing her brain. But she understood that she was dying, and Aziz was with her, and she managed to garble out his name. "Darling, darling," he cooed, sounding teary. "It'll be all right. I'll find you. I'm watching." Hastily, he pulled a gold band off his thumb, and pressed it into her hand. She clutched it. "Watch for me, too. It'll be all right. No more suffering. I promise, sakini." Nissa died. ### ~15 YEARS PRE-CAMPAIGN Sam plucked a golden ring out of a puddle, and his life changed. Easy money, was all he'd thought, spotting the shine in the street. People were walking right past it. He didn't know what kind of person wore gold and cared little enough to drop it and never miss it -- maybe everyone else was walking past it because they figured they were seeing things. Sam wasn't one to pass up a slim chance, though. He scooped it out of the puddle and kept walking, tucking it into his pocket in case someone saw and decided to take it from him. Once he got back to the cabin, he pulled it back out to inspect it. "Whatcha got?" Corinne asked, looking over at him from where she was counting out gold from pawning ill-gotten goods. He held it up, dancing it across his fingers with a grin. She gave him a funny look. "What?" "The hell are you doin'?" she asked. Fucking weird. He stopped rolling the ring and just held it up, still. "Sam, I swear to Tymora." She looked back down, shaking her head. "You're not funny.” "I'm hilarious and charming. And it's a fucking ring, man," he said, crossing the room to wave it in front of her face. She glanced up, then rolled her eyes. Okay. So, invisible ring. He couldn't sell a fucking invisible ring. Maybe to a wizard? Dammit. He scowled and just looped the ring onto his thumb. Fit perfect, though. That was neat. He went about his day, helping Corinne divvy up the gold since he'd gotten a little bit more schooling than her and could do arithmetic better. When Ronan got home, they split his winnings up, too. It was enough for rent -- that was good. Not a hell of a lot else, but Ronan had brought home scraps from the tavern he worked at, and that was a good enough dinner. Wasn’t filling, but it’d keep them all upright and bright-eyed for another day. There wasn’t any money for booze, so Ronan passed around the flask he’d secretly filled at work, and they each got a couple swallows before he and Corinne crashed out on the floor with blankets, and Sam curled up on the couch without. He had the strangest dream. There was a man who looked -- sort of like a tiefling, with the navy blue skin and the horns, and those backward deer legs like some tieflings, but he had wings, too. And Sam wasn’t himself. He was a tiefling, too, a regular one -- a woman, though, he thought -- or maybe he was an orc? He felt vague and blurry, not himself and at the same time too much himself. The blue … man? Creature? It or -- he, or … cool gold-tipped fingers touched Sam’s cheek. “You found me,” it whispered. A different voice came out of Sam’s throat, murmuring, “Aziz.” “Nissa. My beautiful knife.” And a different voice, strangled, said, “Demon.” “Mm.” The creature nodded. It sounded amused. “True.” It rippled, looking more ordinary, more like a real tiefling, and Sam thought that he himself solidified somehow. His own voice came out, a little panicked. He couldn’t tell if this was a nightmare or not. “What?” “Don’t be afraid,” Aziz-Demon said. “Don’t be afraid, Sam. I already love you. I won’t hurt you. I’d never hurt you.” “''What?” He should be more freaked out than he was. It just felt so warm and so true. Like he already knew it. “Can I help you, this time, darling?” the demon entreated gently, and Sam felt a tearing inside himself, felt himself shake his head. The panic rose up again. “Stay away from me. Stay away from me.” “Shh, shh.” The demon pulled away. “I’ll give you time.” He sort of brushed it off when he woke up. Strange goddamn dream, was all. His head hurt like he was hungover, or something -- maybe something he’d eaten had gone off, or just hit his stomach wrong, ‘cause Corinne and Ronan were fine. Ah, well. When he spotted the ring on his thumb, he remembered: that -- demon thing, or Aziz, or whatever, it’d worn gold rings like that. On its horns and such, all over. Just some little thing from the world that’d crept into the dream, he guessed. ### Ronan went to work at the tavern. Corinne slipped away to pick pockets. Sam went to one of his usual street corners to hawk his wares -- glass vials filled with alternately foul and sweet-smelling liquids, all for supposed different purposes, all complete bullshit. Yeah, they tended to have effects -- they weren’t just water -- but if Sam were honest he wouldn’t really say they did anything good for you. Folks would buy them, though, especially when he gave them a wink and a smile, and they’d even believe it fuckin’ worked later on. He was decent at picking out marks, though sometimes Corinne was better at that than he was and would sit back and point them out to him quietly. She just hated the attention, and made more cash working on her own, anyway, so unless she wasn’t feeling well or was injured, they split up. Sam enjoyed the attention, by sharp fucking contrast -- he’d stand up on a crate that was covered in bright red velvet, holding up his prize ‘potion’ -- the one that glowed and sparkled. It got people to looking, and his voice got them to listening well before. “Step up, step up! What ails you, sir? Madame?” He always found a couple people to make eye contact with, offer a winning smile to. “Obsidia’s Elixirs are cheaper than Helmite healing, and work faster than your local apothecary’s fare. Feebleminded father? Brother with bone rot? If you’ve got it, my friends, I can fix it. Step up! Step up! I’m offering free samples, today only.” Yeah, there were free samples every now and then when he just needed to get rid of some products before they went off. A few people stopped to think about it, and he hopped down from his makeshift podium to engage with the one who looked the most like a sucker -- some older man already worrying at the drawstring of his coin pouch. “How can I help you, friend?” He looked well, so Sam flicked a closer look over him and picked up the wedding band. “Unwell spouse? Children?” He listened attentively to the man’s woes, keeping gentle eye contact and nodding, making quiet sounds of affirmation. It was the wife, sure enough, with a bad cold. Hell, Sam could even actually help her symptoms some, with one of these little concoctions -- he’d done a lot of odd jobs in his life, and one of them had been a stint as an apprentice apothecary himself. That was up until he realized the real money -- the staying alive money -- was in making watered down potions and talking them up, convincing people they really did work, and amazingly so at that. Sam offered the man a mixture that would help the wife out a little, and the power of suggestion would do the rest -- and when she still had a cough, judging by the fellow’s earnest, trusting air, he’d come right back for another one. It was still cheaper than going to the Church, after all, and the sort of amicable, personal treatment that Sam offered -- well, that alone was priceless. A couple more folks had formed themselves into a ramshackle line while he made his sale, and he spotted some fuckin’ kid lurking around in the rest of the small, unorderly crowd. Street kid, all glowery and scrawny with short messy hair. Sam kept his smile up and his grimace inside, because that’d been him a few years back -- skulking in distracted crowds and picking pockets. He’d help if he could, but he fucking couldn’t, and if anyone caught on that their wallet was gone then they’d think he was scamming them in a different way -- and besides which, if their wallets were gone, they couldn’t be sold a potion. “Hey, hey!” he called out. The kid knew he’d been made immediately, but he was old enough to be confident or stupid enough to not bolt straight away. Sam bent to scoop up a loose pebble and lobbed it at him. “No stealing from my customers, urchin!” It hurt a little to do it, but making the example sold a few more bottles of snake oil. Obsidia could be trusted. He was no scam artist. Why, if he were, he’d just cut the sneaky teen in, wouldn’t he? Of course. Hell, he probably would if he didn’t already have Corinne. The three of them hit that delicate balance where taking care of each other was more profit than it was loss, but adding a fourth mouth to feed without knowing if they could pull their weight … Yeah, it just wasn’t worth the risk. After a day of moving around the city barking, he made a stop by the friendly glassblower and picked up the discounted, imperfect bottles in trade for a couple potions that really did work -- numbing elixirs for her aging, aching fingers -- then fell back to their little house. He had it to himself for a while, and used that time to make more stock. He’d stolen an egg to fry up for breakfast, but hadn’t eaten since then, so once he was done he let the weariness sink in and dropped onto the couch for a nap. Ronan would wake him up once there was real food, but it might be late -- he’d put in as many hours as the tavern would let him to get all the tips he could. Plus, that was more potential leftover food that he could sneak home. Sam curled up with a ragged blanket, and he had another weird dream. It was like waking. He came to in a canopy bed, the sort he’d only read about in stories about princes and princesses, with gauzy black curtains. The sheets were soft and … silky, he guessed, having never actually touched silk, and he kept just rubbing his fingertips against them as he sat up, mystified. He’d never touched anything like them before. He didn’t know this feeling ''existed. Finally he thought to look around, and through the curtains he could see double doors that opened onto a balcony, and a dusky sky outside, and a figure standing there. The realization that he wasn’t alone made him reconsider himself, and he touched his own chest. He was wearing the clothes he’d fallen asleep in. Was this … real? Had someone fucking kidnapped him? And stuck him in a nice bed, for some reason? He slowly shifted out of the bed, parting the curtains. The floor was cool white marble shot through with black veins, and the walls were dark wooden panelling. It was obviously a private bedroom -- made him think of those stories, again, made him remember the word boudoir. Fancy people bedrooms. Sam slept on a couch and his friends slept on a floor. Who the fuck had a boudoir? The man on the balcony had horns, and hooves, and wings. He heard Sam moving and looked over his shoulder to fix Sam with golden pupiless eyes, and he smiled slightly. Sam froze, feeling naked suddenly because he wasn’t armed. “I won’t hurt you,” the demon said, and Sam remembered the other dream, in the way that dreams can stitch themselves together but still be forgotten on waking. “Aziz?” he said hesitantly. The demon turned, smiling a little more. “Sakini.” He opened his mouth and closed it. He shouldn’t know what that meant, but he did -- my knife. That’d been his name, once. Knife. Sharpness. Nissa, he’d been called. Stygia and phlegethos. Wondered who the fuck had ended up getting his brass knuckles. It all overwhelmed him a little and his knees gave out, sending him sitting heavily back onto the bed. Aziz crossed the balcony and came to him, bending to cup his face with a hand. “It’s all right,” he said quietly. “You’re all right, darling.” Sam didn’t know why he said, “Come back,” but then he said, “I miss you,” and felt it pierce his heart. God, he did. He missed his not-quite-husband. He was alone out there; he was choking on his own blood. He was starving. “Yakiri,” the demon murmured, and kissed his forehead, and stroked his cheek. “I know. I know. I miss you, too. It’s been a long time. I watched you, but you had to find me, this time, I think. It hasn’t worked out well before.” He remembered dying on a muddy field, and dying in a back alley. He remembered seeing Aziz launch fire at the opponent who’d caved in his skull, and everything burning down as his not-quite-husband screamed in pain and fury. It was the last thing Nissa had seen. God, she’d -- he’d -- they’d? -- been so pleased to be cared for that much. Aziz would kill anyone for her; he’d kill everyone for her. No one had ever cared about Sam that much. Corinne and Ronan had each other, but he ... He started crying, then, still a little confused as to why, and Aziz knelt down, holding his face and kissing his tears. “You weren’t there,” Sam blurted. “I'm fucking alone, and I’m so hungry, and …” “I know, I know,” Aziz crooned. “It’s all right. It’s all right. Shh, shh. Can I help you now? Will you let me?” “Please.” Sam grabbed Aziz’s wrists and pulled them around himself, and Aziz half-perched on the bed to hold him, petting his back in long strokes and running fingertips through his hair. “Please, please.” Demon, Sakin screamed. Demon, demon, stay away, stay away. But Sam was quiet and cried out twenty-five years of suffering onto Aziz’s shoulder, and Sakin had been fucking wrong, because suffering was awful. It wasn’t a few moments of physical anguish on a battlefield, it was two decades of starving and stealing and pinching pennies, and being cold and lonely and watching other people always have, always get. It was not knowing you were missing something until you got it back, and the terror of ever losing it again. Aziz kissed the ring on his thumb. “I’ll be with you,” he promised, his own thumb stroking Sam’s cheek. “I can’t protect you from your plane. But I’ll be here when you dream. I’ll whisper in your ear. I’ll be watching.” Sam nodded. He didn’t understand, really, but he felt better. He remembered uncountable golden eyes trained on him and being horrified, and he couldn’t really figure out why it’d been a problem. He wanted someone watching out for him. He needed it. He was desperate for it. “I need you to do some things for me, darling,” Aziz whispered. “So that we can be together properly. Can you do that?” “Anything.” His voice cracked. ### The thing about the power was that it hurt. It was too much all at once, he thought. It burned through him and he woke up back on his couch writhing and panting, struggling into consciousness. Corinne stood over him, wide-eyed, her hands up like she was afraid to touch him. “Sammy, Sammy,” she said hastily, once his eyes opened. “You okay?” She tried to touch him and pulled away, yelping. “Fuck, you’re burning up.” His hands curled into dull claws, digging into the couch as he groaned, his teeth grit hard against it. God, it hurt too much. Fuck. Fuck. Aziz wouldn’t hurt him. Said so. But it hurt so much. The couch caught fire under his grip. Corinne yelped again and scrambled to toss a bucket of water onto the flame, and it just steamed and sizzled on Sam’s skin, and as soon as the couch’d gone out, it lit up under his other hand. “Fuck, Sammy! What the fuck?” She was backing away. They’d grown up together, him and Corinne, but then she’d met Ronan. Wasn’t like Sam ever had his eyes on her, but he’d been … jealous. She’d just ditched him to get laid. Wasn’t any secret that her and Ronan hoped to have their own place, some golden day, and then Sam’d be out in the cold, on his own, while they had some little family and shit that he would never be a part of. And now he was in pain, and she was walking away from him. He called for her, through his grit teeth, begging for help, and she just … shook her head, and kept moving, and the sense of loss and betrayal turned to fucking anger. He blacked out, for a little while, but he knew he’d killed his friends when he woke up. There wasn’t much left of them. The power had dulled, and it didn’t hurt anymore, and he wasn’t setting things on fire anymore. He felt emptied out, but not of the magic. That was still there -- he still felt this connection to the black fire with its golden cinders, and he knew he could still reach out and touch it. Ronan had tried to protect Corinne. He’d been so angry -- Ronan fucking stole his best friend, just came into Sam’s life like he owned it. They’d … they’d been friends, too, though. And he’d made Corinne happy, and Sam was happy to see Corinne happy, he just … just … He scraped together everything they had left. Everything he had left, now. There was no way he’d be able to afford the place alone, but not everything had burned, and with Corinne’s gold he got himself a room at a cheap inn, and he got a hot meal -- got odd looks, being singed -- and he got enough shitty wine to get to sleep. When he woke up, Aziz was already holding him, and whispering, “I didn’t know that would happen. I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t know -- I didn’t know it would hurt. I haven’t done this before. I’m sorry.” And he couldn’t be angry. He was -- heartbroken, or something, but he already felt this distance from Corinne and Ronan, like they were from another life. He’d had two others anyway, and the only constant was Aziz. The only thing he could count on.The only one looking out for him. He dozed in his dream, restless but exhausted, comforted by Aziz’s presence. “It won’t hurt again,” the demon promised. “I’ll be more careful. Only a little bit at a time. You did very well, you know. I … worried. But you’re strong. So strong,” he murmured, soothing Sam to sleep. “My sharpness. My knife.” With no idea how time worked, here, he didn’t know how long it was, but eventually he roused himself, mumbling, “Fresh air.” The demon helped him up, and he stumbled a little, feeling drunk, but made his way over to the balcony. A pleasantly cool breeze blew in, and he expected to see a desert, or forest, or an ocean, but it did dawn on him as he got closer that any of those things would carry a scent with it. There wasn’t any smell on this breeze at all. There wasn't anything but night beyond the balcony. That dark blue dusk pierced by stars, with no sun and no rim of light giving away where it had sunk -- fuck, no horizon anyway. Just sky, just dusk, and just yellow stars all around. Or maybe they were eyes. Aziz -- and it occurred to Sam for the first time that his name must not really be Aziz, like he wasn’t really a tiefling -- stood by him and held him carefully as he looked out over the crepuscular abyss. "Do you like it?" the demon asked. "I can change it, if you don't." Sam shook his head, slowly, awestruck and confused. It was nothing and everything. His demon could change a world, and would do it if he asked. He felt light-headed, a little, and leaned into Aziz. Belonging -- that was what he felt -- and, god, longing. "You were there, before," he said weakly. "With me. Why can't you … do it again? And we can … I won't …" "I'm with you," Aziz murmured, touching his ring. "I'm with you. I can visit your plane -- I can make a body. But it's temporary and weak, and I can't give you power in that form. It'll take time, darling." It pained him. "I won't lie to you. It will. But when you cut the caul that keeps our worlds apart …" He leaned his delicate lips into Sam's hair, smiling just that tiny bit, just for Sam. "Then I can be with you." ### It took time. It took years. And the demon's knife was tired. He wanted to sleep -- he wanted to sleep forever, and rest in his not-quite-husband's arms. But it took strength, and armament, and research, and gold, and charm, and ferocity. It took heartlessness, at times. It took fire and blood. It'd all be worth it some day, his demon promised. "Your name isn't Aziz," he knew. "Is there something else I can call you? You know, something more … real?" His demon thought, and said, "Ba'alchem." Ah. He liked that. It felt safe -- taken care of. His demon, his master, his darling -- Ba'alchem was watching him. Wouldn't let anything happen to him. "My name isn't Sam," he said. "It can't be. Was I someone else, before? Who was I -- first?" "I don't know," his demon admitted. "I don't know if you existed before I saw you." He decided that he hadn't, or if he had, none of the people he'd been before had mattered anyway. "Sakin," he muttered. Still a distant instinctive panic in his head at times, always overpowered by Nissa. "Sakini," his demon said fondly. "Sakincha," he agreed. He only knew orcish in his dreams, but -- he held onto that. Your knife. Your master. It was taking such a long time, but they'd be together again. Category:Vignettes